


got you under my skin (got you deep in the heart of me)

by nykteris



Category: PRISTIN (Band)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-04
Updated: 2016-05-04
Packaged: 2018-06-06 08:39:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,339
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6746965
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nykteris/pseuds/nykteris
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The noodle bar had become a form of escape for Nayoung -- an escape from her restlessness, from her inability to sleep even when she was dead-tired or tired enough to be dead.</p>
            </blockquote>





	got you under my skin (got you deep in the heart of me)

**Author's Note:**

> otherwise known as 'we found love in a noodle place.mp3'. i honestly have no idea what made me think writing this when i had a monster headache was a good idea but i did it anyway. i'm not exactly sure how i feel about this particular piece yet but /shrugs.
> 
> title is from "i've got you under my skin" by frank sinatra.

The jazz music playing in the background at the noodle bar is a little out of place, but Nayoung supposes that it just adds to the charm of the place. It’s an odd mix, the velvety smoothness of jazz and the acidity of noodles -- somehow it works, at least here anyway.

11:55 PM. She pushes the door open, the chimes hanging by the entrance ringing and signaling the entrance of another customer. There’s barely anyone else at this time, just a handful of people that Nayoung has seen a handful of times. Like her, they frequent the small noodle bar with the jazz music playing until the crack of dawn (that might have been a stretch, but Nayoung had once stayed until two o’clock in the morning and the music still kept playing). There isn’t anything particularly special about the humble noodle bar, perhaps aside from the music choice; it’s a simple place with minimal frills and Nayoung likes that about it. The noodles are pretty good too.

The smell of noodles and soup is strong but not unwelcomed, the sound of Charlie Parker’s rapid passing chords on his saxophone easing the knots away from Nayoung’s tense shoulders. She takes a seat at her usual spot, a table by the windows. The waitress approaches her, asks “Will it be the usual?”, and Nayoung nods. “And a glass of water, please,” Nayoung adds before the waitress turns to leave. She pulls out her notes and textbook from her bag, leafing through the pages until she was on the right ones. The claps in the live studio recording of Parker’s set signal the end of the song. Slowly after, the next song plays.

The noodle bar had become a form of escape for Nayoung -- an escape from her restlessness, from her inability to sleep even when she was dead-tired or tired enough to be dead. Chungha worries for her, worries that she would get sick if she didn’t get enough rest or sleep. But if Nayoung were to be honest, she prefers being here at the crack of dawn sipping on the soup of her noodles while she pored over her lecture notes than tossing and turning in bed, her mind so alarmingly awake and buzzing with a million thoughts per second. And the music reminds her of the times she’d spend in her father’s study, running her fingers over the spines of the novels that lined his book shelves, humming to one of his jazz records playing in the background.

Her order arrives ten minutes later. She breaks her chopsticks in half, quickly muttering grace under her breath, more out of habit than anything. Bon appetit.

Nayoung eats her noodles while her eyes skim over the hastily scribbled notes and annotations she had made earlier that day, tapping her foot to the song playing. Another ten minutes pass -- she’s halfway through her bowl of noodles, has had her glass refilled three times now -- when the chimes at the entrance go ringing again. It breaks her focus and she throws a glance over her shoulder to see who’s just entered.

It’s no one she’s seen before, not since she started going frequenting the noodle bar, anyway. The girl looks as out of place as the jazz the noodle bar plays -- she looks around curiously, taking hesitant steps. She’s got a leather jacket that looks a size too big for her lean frame thrown over a shirt that’s an eyesore of candy yellow and pink, her jeans ripped at the knees and her white sneakers just a little scruffy. _She still looks a lot more dressed up than I do_ , Nayoung thinks, a little embarrassed at her hoodie and sweats ensemble. She turns her eyes away from the girl and refocuses on her notes, just catching the girl sit down two tables away from hers.

The song comes to an end and the next song starts with the plucking of guitar strings.

“What’ll you be having?” Nayoung hears the waitress ask the girl.

There is a silence that follows; Nayoung imagines that the girl is pursing her lips, mind juggling the options, as if deciding what noodles to get is something that requires all that much thinking. She brings the bowl up to her mouth, tilting her head back as she finishes the hearty soup of her noodles.

Then the girl says, “I’ll have whatever that girl over there is having.”

Nayoung takes note of the slightest accent that the girl has, assumes that the girl probably isn’t Korean, but her Korean is very good. That’s as far as her paying any attention to the girl goes; she pays for her food and gets up to go back to her shared flat with Chungha. She leaves without casting her another glance or giving her a second thought.

Behind her, as she leaves, Louis Armstrong sings to ‘La Vie En Rose’.

  
  
  
  
  


Nayoung begins to see more and more of the new girl as the days and weeks go by. Her leather jacket is a constant.

The girl orders the same thing Nayoung orders, the same noodles all the time. She also arrives at the noodle bar late at night and stays until past midnight, the way Nayoung does. But the two of them never talk, or at least never make the move to talk to each other, even if by now they have both grown accustomed to each other’s presence. Nayoung pores over her books while the girl starts conversations with the waitress and the old woman that owned the place. Nayoung only saw the old lady sometimes, but nowadays she spends more time at the graveyard shift, for whatever reasons Nayoung can’t fathom.

She can’t help herself from eavesdropping on their conversations, not because they were talking about anything particularly interesting or special but because theirs were the only voices in the room, the only other sound aside from the jazz music and the cars outside. Nayoung can tell that the waitress and the noodle bar’s owner like the new girl who always seems to have something to talk about. The usual peace and quiet of the place has been replaced with a different kind of aura, but it isn’t one that’s unpleasant.

“This song is pretty good,” the girl comments delightedly. “I’m not really a jazz person but this song’s pretty good.”

“You think so?” the old lady replies, chuckling. “I’m not really a jazz person myself. It’s my husband who likes jazz, that’s why we always play jazz music here.”

“I didn’t know that,” chimes in the waitress. “Though I always thought it was kinda weird for a noodle bar to be playing coffee table kinda music.”

 _You’re not the only one who thinks that_ , Nayoung thinks but doesn’t say. She takes a small sip of her soup.

“I like that you play jazz here,” the girl says. “Do you know who the artist of this song is, by the way?”

 _Angelo Debarre_ , Nayoung responds in her head, instantly recognizing the style with which the gypsy jazz guitarist is known for. Her father had been fond of gypsy jazz, as they called it, often playing the works of Debarre and the likes. She waits for the old woman to answer, hopes that maybe her husband imparted some of his knowledge onto her. But the woman has this strained look on her face, eyes narrowed and lips pressed into a thin line as she thinks of the answer.

The girl seems to sense that the old woman doesn’t know the answer so she says, “Oh, it’s alright if you don’t know who the artist is. I was just a little curious.”

“No, no,” the old woman insists, scratching her head. “I do know who this guy is, I’m sure my husband’s mentioned him to me before.”

Before Nayoung can stop herself, she blurts out, “Angelo Debarre.”

The three women turn to look at her, surprised. Nayoung feels heat crawl up her cheeks and she adds, “The name of the artist is Angelo Debarre. The one you’re asking about.”

A moment of silence follows then the waitress remarks, “Huh. Never really pinned you as a jazz person.”

The corner of Nayoung’s lips turn up to form a lopsided and half-hearted smile in response. She catches the new girl looking at her curiously before her own lips curl into a smile.

Nayoung and the girl both finish up their noodles a few minutes later, getting up at the same time and walking to the exit at the same time. Nayoung has a good few inches over the girl, but the girl matches her stride almost perfectly. They both reach for the handle of the door at the same time, the tips of their fingers brushing for a fraction of a second before they both pull their hands away. _Well this is awkward_.

“I don’t think I’ve introduced myself,” the girl says suddenly, offering Nayoung a bright smile. She holds out her hand in front of Nayoung. “I’m Jieqiong.”

Nayoung looks at the hand before her, hesitating. Then, slowly, she replies, “I’m Nayoung”, and she takes Jieqiong’s hand in hers, giving it a firm shake.

There’s a twinkle in Jieqiong’s eyes when she says, “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Nayoung.”

  
  
  
  
  


Jieqiong pulls out the chair opposite Nayoung’s and asks, “Mind if I join you?”

Nayoung looks up from her phone, surprise hidden beneath her default stoic expression. It’s half past one in the morning and Nayoung had been the only person in the noodle bar until Jieqiong came along. She shrugs and says, “Go ahead.”

Jieqiong sits down and rests her chin on her hands, head titled slightly. Nayoung feels the other girl’s gaze on her even if her own eyes are glued to the screen of her phone. She looks up and clears her throat. “Is there something I can help you with?”

Jieqiong chuckles, apparently amused. “Are you _sure_ you don’t mind me sitting here with you?”

Nayoung bites down on her lower lip, face still expressionless. “Well,” she replies evenly, “to be honest I’m not all that used to having company.”

“I’ve noticed.”

Nayoung doesn’t reply.

“Let’s play an icebreaker: twenty questions. I get to ask first.”

Nayoung sees no point in saying no so she just nods her head in response.

“Why are you always here at this time?”

“Because I can’t sleep.”

“Why can’t you sleep?”

“I just can’t. And isn’t it my turn to ask you a question?”

Jieqiong smiles. “Fire away, then.”

Nayoung stops to think of a question but gives up in the end. “I’m honestly not very good at this kind of stuff.”

“Would you rather have me ask all the questions, then? For convenience.”

“Sure, I suppose.”

“Why this place when you could go anywhere else to pass time?”

“Coffee shops are full even at this time especially here, along the university belt, so they’re still pretty noisy. It’s irritating. And most coffee shops don’t play decent jazz or serve good noodles.”

Jieqiong laughs, and the sound of her laughter is so bright and carefree. Nayoung’s eye follow Jieqiong’s hand as Jieqiong tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “I don’t expect coffee shops to do any less.”

“Now that I think of it, that bit about the noodles seems kind of dumb.”

“It kinda is.” There’s a playful glint in Jieqiong’s eyes and Nayoung finds herself smiling despite herself and Jieqiong is quick to take note of this. “You know, you should smile more. You’re pretty when you smile.”

“You wouldn’t believe just how many times I’ve heard that already,” Nayoung scoffs, settling back to her aloof state and expression. “In fact, I hear it everyday.”

“Well,” Jieqiong replies, leaning forward, peering at Nayoung through her long lashes, “There’s a reason why you get that a lot.”

Nayoung swallows down the lump in her throat with difficulty.

  
  
  
  
  


Nayoung comes to find that Jieqiong is very curious, always prodding her for information and always asking questions. She asks Nayoung about jazz, about college, about what her major is, about _everything_. Nayoung realizes that she doesn’t mind it at all, doesn’t find it annoying or bothersome. In fact, she finds Jieqiong’s curious nature kind of charming and endearing. She grows fond of the way Jieqiong listens very intently to everything she has to say, hanging on to every word.She grows fond of Jieqiong’s ability to be enthusiastic about anything and everything, kind of like an overly excited puppy.

Jieqiong is her polar opposite in so many aspects: their personalities, the way they dressed and the colors they often wore (Jieqiong favored candy colored everything while Nayoung preferred cooler shades and tones), even the way they ate. But that’s probably why they work as well as they do.

If anything, all of this is just an overly wordy attempt at trying to downplay the fact that Nayoung likes having Jieqiong around, something she’s not too keen on admitting just yet, not even to herself.

  
  
  
  
  


It comes to the point that Nayoung feels her cheeks sore and aching every time she comes home from the noodle bar. The muscles around her mouth and cheeks aren’t used to it -- aren’t used to that obscene amount of smiling she’s been doing lately. All because Jieqiong could make her do that more than anyone else, could make her laugh about the smallest of things and could make her smile until she couldn’t feel her face.

And the thing is: she likes it. She likes how her cheeks feel sore from smiling too much, likes the way laughter leaves her lips so much easier now than before, likes how Jieqiong has that effect on her.

And the truth is, Nayoung likes Jieqiong a lot more than she’d like to admit.

  
  
  
  
  


Nayoung allows herself the pleasure of being the one asking the questions this time, even if having Jieqiong doing all the asking is so much more convenient and interesting for them both. Jieqiong doesn’t seem to mind, though.

“Why’d you go here to Korea?” Nayoung asks Jieqiong in a straightforward manner, as if she were conducting a job interview or something.

Jieqiong slurps up her noodles -- the same one she and Nayoung always get, of course -- before answering, “I’m an exchange student here.”

“For how long will you be staying?” Nayoung asks, sipping her soup.

“I’ve been here for almost an entire term already,” Jieqiong replies. She sets her chopsticks down beside her now empty noodle bowl. “I’ve got a few weeks left on my stay here, probably a month.”

Nayoung feels her heart sink, feels her chest constricting, when she hears the reply. Her face betrays no emotions, however, and her voice doesn’t falter or waver when she says, “I hope you’ve enjoyed your stay here so far, then.”

Jieqiong smiles in response but the usual sparkle in her eyes isn’t there and Nayoung wonders if the other girl feels the same pang of sadness that she had just felt seconds ago.

  
  
  
  
  


“Why are you always in a rush to go to that noodle place nowadays?” Chungha asks her, glancing at her only briefly before gluing her eyes back onto the TV screen.

Nayoung’s steps come to an abrupt halt. She didn’t think Chungha would pay that much attention to her nocturnal activities. “It’s just boring here,” she replies in an even voice. “And besides, you know about my sleeping problem.”

“Yeah, I do know about it, but nowadays you rush to get there as if your sanity depends on it or something.”

Nayoung mulls over that for a moment before she turns the doorknob and says to Chungha over her shoulder, “I’ll be back in a bit.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Chungha says, waving a hand dismissively.

  
  
  
  
  


It’s half past two o’clock in the morning and two minutes into ‘Slow Boat To China’ when the chimes of at the entrance of the noodle bar come ringing; Nayoung knows it’s Jieqiong that’s just entered.

Jieqiong lightly places a hand on Nayoung’s shoulder as she walks over to the chair opposite Nayoung -- their usual arrangement. She sits down, taking off her leather jacket and draping it around the back of her chair. They are the only two people in the noodle bar, save for the waitress who fiddles with her phone.

“You’re kinda late,” Nayoung deadpans, although it only comes off that way; she had meant for it to be a joke.

Jieqiong laughs. “Didn’t know I had to be here at a designated time or something.”

Nayoung blushes. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

“I’m just messing with you, silly.”

Nayoung presses her lips into a thin line.

“Did you wait for me?” Jieqiong asks, leaning forward in her seat. There is gentleness in her voice, a touch of warmth.

“Yes,” Nayoung replies softly, just under her breath, and she looks away immediately, motioning for the waitress to bring two glasses of water to their table.

Nayoung takes a small sip of water while Jieqiong looks out the window, fingers circling the rim of her glass. Silence -- neither of them say anything; the sound of saxophones, trumpets and the drums are the only sounds that color the silence that has fallen between them. It is neither unsettling nor comfortable. They remain quiet, lost in their own heads, for the remainder of the song. It feels like an eternity to Nayoung, who takes sips at even intervals.

The song comes to an end with the sound of applause and Jieqiong turns to her and says, “I’m going back to China next week.”

Nayoung nods silently because she is unable to do anything else.

  
  
  
  
  


The remaining days they have together -- Nayoung almost finds it silly that she thinks of them that way, finds everything so silly -- are composed of steam rising from hot bowls of noodles, scratchy jazz recordings playing around them and silence. They speak few words to each other, exchanging pleasantries and the occasional comment about the weather or the song playing.

The silence is heavy, so burdened by things they didn’t or even couldn’t say. But they are incapable of saying anything much to each other; Jieqiong has no questions and Nayoung has no answers. Silence is the only logical thing to turn to.

Nayoung’s own heart feels heavy. She feels a little hollow on the inside, feels her heart shrivelling up. Time moves both excruciatingly slow and dizzyingly fast and all Nayoung can think of is stopping the hands of time entirely so she could freeze this moment and be like this for as long as she wanted, or maybe even forever. But she knows life doesn’t work like that, not even for the most powerful man or woman in the world, so she tries her hardest to ignore the niggling at her heart.

On their last night together -- or, Jieqiong’s last night in Korea -- Jieqiong neatly scribbles her number on the back of Nayoung’s hand and it reminds Nayoung of those cheesy old high school movies, of teenage sweethearts and teenage dreams.

Jieqiong looks up at her and the corners of her eyes crinkle as she smiles, Nayoung’s hand still in hers. Nayoung’s lips move on their own accord, mirroring the smile on the other girl’s face.

They don’t move.

In the background, a woman sings a song of quiet nights and of quiet stars, of Corcovado.

  
  
  
  
  


 

 

 

 

Nayoung enters the noodle bar at eleven o’clock; the chimes signal her presence. The waitress looks up from the counter with faint interest before looking back down at the magazine she had been reading.

She walks to her table, the one by the windows, settling herself on the seat and shrugging her jacket off. The waitress approaches her a few seconds later, pen and paper in hand, and asks, “Will it be the usual?”

Nayoung looks out the window for a moment, tapping her fingers against the table. She turns her head back to the waitress and says, “I think I’d like to try something different today.”

**Author's Note:**

> idek if 24hr noodle bars (??) exist but it'd be pretty cool if they did. anyway, comments and kudos are greatly appreciated! <3


End file.
